


i know my way is rough and steep

by GRBookworm1818



Series: as we go marching, marching [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019), Pride (2014)
Genre: (just a tad), Alternate Universe - Pride (2014), Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protectiveness, Reincarnation, World War I, lgsm, please don't ask me to be creative with chapter titles, what's this? some
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:33:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GRBookworm1818/pseuds/GRBookworm1818
Summary: Direct sequel to "as we go marching, marching." In the summer of 1986, Tom Blake grapples with the consequences of a monumental decision while Will Schofield struggles to get by in the face of impending tragedy. Steph Chambers, meanwhile, wishes the two of them would get over themselves and just kiss already.
Relationships: Joe "Bromley" Cooper & Steph, Lauri (1917)/Steph (Pride), Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: as we go marching, marching [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855489
Comments: 25
Kudos: 57





	1. Coming Out

**Author's Note:**

> This story is gonna make a LOT more sense if you've read "as we go marching, marching" beforehand, so I'd recommend you do that first. I hope you enjoy!  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!   
> Trigger warnings for this chapter can be found in the end notes.

Tom was falling. He had not moved from where he stood, in the kitchen, and yet he was falling. His brother was staring at him.

Joe blinked. “Come again?”

Tom wanted to scream. “I – I’m gay,” he said more slowly, pointing at himself like it would help. “Me. I’m – as in, um. Homosexual.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Joe said. He stopped stirring the pot and set down the spoon. “I just – you – are you _sure?”_

“Pretty sure, yeah.” Tom swallowed hard. There was a lump in his throat, and his eyes were stinging. His chest was burning. He felt brittle, like the smallest breeze would shatter him completely.

Joe nodded.

“Wh – okay. Okay.” He looked down.

Tom did not dare to breathe.

Joe cleared his throat and continued to speak, glancing back up at Tom.

“Um. I don’t – that’s, uh, that’s fine? I mean, ’m okay with that. You’re, you’re my brother, and this – this, uh, doesn’t change that. Thanks for telling me.”

Tom nodded mechanically, then paused and realized what Joe had said.

An enormous weight seemed to have disappeared from his shoulders, and he wanted to laugh from sheer relief. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath – and burst into tears.

A distant bewilderment joined the relief as he heard Joe dash towards him. Why was he crying?

“Why the – why’re you crying?”

Joe had his hands on Tom’s shoulders and was checking him over frantically, laying a warm palm against his forehead.

“Are – are you sick?” he asked urgently. “Shit, did I do something? Tom? What’d I say?”

Tom could only shake his head and sob. His brother led him to the table and let him collapse into one of the chairs, then pulled up another chair with a screech and sat down in it so that he was facing Tom. He kept a hand on Tom’s shoulder the entire time.

Tom was still crying – deep, racking sobs that made his stomach hurt – and he still wasn’t sure why. It was a happy occasion, right? Joe had said he was okay with him being gay. He should be relieved, maybe even joyful. He _was._ So why was he crying?

“Just breathe, Tom,” his brother said. “I’m here. I’m here. Just breathe.” He patted his shoulder.

Slowly, gradually, Tom’s sobs dissipated into hiccups, and his breathing grew steadier.

“Christ,” he muttered thickly. “I – _Christ.”_ He felt wrung-out and slightly nauseous.

“Tom?” Joe was still sitting in front of him, hands in his lap. “What’s wrong?”

Tom shook his head and massaged at his temples. “’M fine,” he said slowly. It was difficult to speak. “Just – um – glad you, uh, took it well. Was – was worried.”

“Worried – about how I’d react? To you, uh, being gay?”

Tom hesitated, then nodded and glanced up at Joe. His brother was watching him with a troubled look on his face.

“I – _shit._ Tom, if I – if I ever said, or – or did anything that made you think –”

“You didn’t,” Tom interrupted. “That’s not – it’s just, I was just worried.”

“Well,” Joe said, reaching forward to clasp Tom’s shoulder, “like I – like I said. You’re my brother. This doesn’t change that. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tom echoed. He wiped at his eyes, taking a deep breath, and managed to smile. The nausea had abated slightly.

Joe grinned back and coughed. He waved his hand in front of his face and turned to look behind him. Tom looked past him and saw that the pot on the stove was smoking.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Joe muttered as he leapt from his chair and ran over to the pot. He shut the burner off and peered at the contents of the pot, then grimaced.

“New plan,” he said, looking up at Tom. “How’s takeaway sound?”

\--

Later, as they ate Chinese takeaway out of white paper boxes, Joe seemed restless. He glanced at Tom, then quickly averted his gaze when Tom looked back at him. His knee was bouncing under the table, so that his whole body shook slightly.

Tom put down his fried rice and looked warily at Joe.

“Everything alright?” he asked, unable to keep the nervousness from his voice.

“No, yeah, it’s just – it’s stupid.”

“Never stopped you before, has it?”

“Piss off,” Joe said with a grin. “It’s a – well it’s a stupid question. But I’m – curious.”

“Go on.”

“Um – when’d you know you were gay? Like, did you know when, when we were kids, or --?”

Tom thought for a moment, tapping his chopsticks together.

“I don’t think I _knew_ then,” he said musingly. “Maybe I sort of thought, um, I could be? But – um. I wasn’t sure. Thought I’d – I, I figured at the time I’d just start fancying girls at some point.”

Joe nodded. “So when’d you _know_? At uni?”

“A bit, yeah. Um.” Tom could feel his face turning red. He knew he’d been found out when Joe got a sly look on his face.

“You’re blushing,” he said. “Does that mean – wait. The – didn’t they have their, their gay pride parade thing last week? Saturday?”

Tom nodded. He could practically see the wheels turning in his brother’s mind.

“And that’s when – you went to it, didn’t you? That’s why you didn’t arrive until evening. And then you had the – oh. _Oh._ ” A look of dawning comprehension crossed Joe’s face.

“What?” Tom asked suspiciously.

Joe cleared his throat.

“You had a plaster on your forehead,” he began. “You _never_ carry plasters with you. If you’d gotten it at Mum’s she’d’ve let me know. Someone _else_ gave you the plaster. And if you went to the parade . . .”

He trailed off into silence, looking at Tom expectantly. Tom kept his eyes fixed on his fried rice as he ate. After a momentary standoff, Joe caved.

“Tom,” he said, “did you – did you _meet_ someone?”

Tom narrowly avoided choking on his rice, which was answer enough. His face was on fire. He glanced back up to see the look of realization on his brother’s face had given way to a delighted grin.

“It’s not – hang on,” Joe interrupted himself, holding his hands up. “Hold on. It’s not that bloke you’ve been phoning – Will or something. Is it?”

Tom sighed and nodded, just the barest movement of his head up and down.

“It _is_ ,” Joe gasped. “You – holy shit. _Holy shit_.”

He leaned back in his chair as if overcome with the revelation.

Tom rolled his eyes.

“So me meeting someone is a bigger deal than me _coming out_ ,” he drawled, “is that it?”

Joe looked back at Tom, almost accusingly.

“It’s a big deal if it’s someone you met at a bloody _gay pride parade_ ,” he said exasperatedly. “And if it’s someone you met and then proceeded to phone every bloody evening. I – Jesus. He give you the plaster as well?”

Tom nodded.

“Course he did,” muttered Joe. “And earlier today, when you were ‘going out’ --?”

“I – yeah. We talked.”

“You’ve met with him in person, then,” Joe said. His tone had changed slightly, and he was no longer smiling.

Tom nodded uncertainly.

“How – is that what you’ve – how often have you, uh, met with him? Face to face?”

Something about the question set Tom on edge.

“A few times,” he said vaguely. “Uh – not for long, usually. Just sort of – checking in? Um.”

“Alright,” said Joe. He was getting a look in his eyes that only ever meant trouble: his _I’m older than you and I know better_ look.

“I’ll be upfront about this,” he continued. “I wanna meet him.”

Tom frowned. “You – why? Never asked to meet my other mates.”

Joe looked uncomfortable. “That was – that’s _different_ ,” he said carefully. “I just wanna talk with him. See what kind of, of _intentions_ he might have, is all.”

“ _Intentions_?” Tom repeated. “What d’you mean ‘intentions’?”

Joe looked down at the table, and it hit Tom.

“Wait,” he said, “wait, you don’t – you don’t think—"

He cut himself off; he could barely think it, let alone say it. He took a deep breath and tried again.

“You think he’s gonna – that he would try to – to –”

Once again, words failed him. Tom could feel his face burning, with embarrassment and – deeper down – with an odd, shameful anger, at Joe and at himself. His hands were clenched into fists on the table.

“Never said that,” Joe said quickly, looking alarmed. “I – I didn’t mean to make it sound like –”

“Then what was it supposed to sound like?” Tom retorted. “Why the fuck would you use the word ‘intentions’ if that _isn’t_ what you were trying to say?”

“I couldn’t think of a better word!” Joe said exasperatedly. “I couldn’t – I’m not – I just wanna see what he’s like, okay? That’s _it_.”

“ _Hell_ no,” Tom said, his voice rising. “First off, there’s no – he doesn’t, there are no intentions here. _None._ This isn’t – it’s not a bloody courtship, we’re just _mates_. And I’m not – I’m not inviting him here to be fucking _interrogated_.”

“Who says I’m gonna interrogate him?” Joe protested. “I just wanna know – like, how old is he? What’s he look like? Where’s he work?”

“He’s about my age,” Tom said stubbornly. “Tall, blond. Works at a café in Market Garden, and a bookshop part-time.”

He clenched his jaw and let out a huff of breath. He could have said more, he _wanted_ to say more – Will’s parents kicked him out for being gay, he doesn’t get enough sleep, he likes photography and wants to be a baker – but at the same time he wanted to keep what he’d learned to himself. Partly for Will’s sake and partly, if he was being completely honest, to spite Joe.

“Why can’t you trust me on this?” he finally asked. “Never asked to meet my _other_ mates.”

Joe looked pained. “Of _course_ I trust you,” he said quietly. “I know you can handle yourself. I just – I worry. Been stuff in the papers, you know, on the telly – _young_ men, young _gay_ men, getting – getting sick. I – I don’t want that to happen to you.”

Tom looked down at the table. In spite of himself, the thought of Will at the flat was tempting. And Will had invited him into his life, into _his_ flat; maybe he ought to return the favor.

After a long moment, Tom sighed.

“Fine,” he said reluctantly. “ _Fine_. I’ll ask – I will _ask_ him if he feels _comfortable_ coming over. And _if_ he feels comfortable with it, _if_ he comes over, I’m gonna be here too. Anything you say to him you say to me.”

Joe nodded. “Of course.”

“I mean it,” Tom said, staring at Joe. “Will’s my friend. I trust him. Just cause he’s gay, that – that doesn’t mean you get to, to fucking _cross-examine_ him or whatever. _I’m_ gay too.”

Joe looked at him steadily. Tom could not read the expression on his face.

“I know,” he said quietly.

They finished eating in silence.

\--

Later, after they had cleaned everything up and were sitting in the front room with the telly on, the silence heavy and swollen between them, Tom found himself turning toward Joe.

“I’ll call him tomorrow,” he said. “To ask.” It felt like a peace offering.

Even in the sickly pale light cast by the telly, Tom could see Joe’s face brighten. “Thanks,” he said. “Really.”

Tom nodded and pushed away the swell of guilt in his chest.

Joe shuffled where he sat. He coughed.

“I – I really don’t wanna scare him off or anything,” he said, glancing at Tom. “Promise. Just – I just worry. I’d feel better, meeting him.”

“I’ll call him,” Tom repeated.

Joe smiled tiredly. He reached over and patted Tom on the shoulder before leaning back on the couch.

Tom sat back as well and yawned, half-heartedly watching the telly. After everything that had happened, it was nice to just _sit_ , with his legs tucked up underneath him _._ His body felt immeasurably heavy, like it would sink into the couch.

He yawned again and let his eyes shut, shuffling slightly to get into a more comfortable position. Maybe he would close his eyes, just for a bit, and let himself sink. That sounded nice.

As Tom sat there, he could still vaguely see the light from the telly through his eyelids, and faintly hear chattering voices at a low volume, but the sensations were fading.

He felt the couch shift slightly next to him and heard his brother take a step. There was a _click_ and the faint lights and sounds from the telly were cut off.

“G’night,” he heard Joe whisper, in a barely audible voice. Something settled over Tom, a slight warm weight on his body that was soft against his face when he moved. A blanket.

Tom heard Joe’s footsteps growing faint in the distance. For a moment he wanted to move, or call out to Joe, or cry, but the moment passed. It took a long time for him to finally fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: coming out to a relative, mild panic attack, vague homophobia, mention of AIDS


	2. Visiting Hours II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! Things have been crazy but I wanted to post this, though I might go back and edit it later. Here's a chapter from Will's POV. I hope you enjoy!  
> Trigger warnings for this chapter can be found in the end notes to avoid possible spoilers

Will stood and looked at the door to his grandad’s hospital room while trying to work up the courage to go inside. His feet seemed stuck to the linoleum floor.

Suppose his grandad had changed his mind about Will? Suppose he had – Christ, suppose he had _died_? He had died and had been buried and nobody had told Will because nobody cared enough to, because he wasn’t part of the family anymore, because –

Will squeezed his hand into a fist until it hurt. He focused on the pain and forced himself to take a deep breath. Regardless of how his grandad felt, he still had the handkerchief to return, if nothing else. And if – if he _was_ dead, then at least Will would know.

 _You are brave_ , he’d said, the night before. It was true: _Tom_ was brave. Will was not. But he had to know.

Will took another breath and opened the door. The first thing he registered as he looked inside the room was that it was his grandad in the hospital bed. It sent something stinging in his eyes as he stepped inside.

He wandered over to the end of the hospital bed and saw a sheaf of papers in a little plastic compartment. He picked up the papers and looked at the first one. The only part of it Will could understand was at the top, where his grandad’s name was spelled out in capital letters: _SCHOFIELD, THOMAS JOSEPH._ He looked over the rest of it anyway and pretended, for a moment, that all the numbers and scribbled notes meant his grandad was making a full recovery.

“Well, doctor?” His grandad’s voice was light, but Will was still startled and nearly sent the papers flying. “Will I make it through the night, do you think?”

Will glanced up to see his grandad peering at him with a small smile. His face looked pinker than it had the previous time, healthier, and the sight was unexpectedly painful.

Will hastily looked down at the chart and tried to say, “I hope so,” but there was a lump in his throat that made speaking difficult. He swallowed hard and nodded, instead. Putting the papers back, he walked over to the side of the bed where his grandad lay.

“I, uh, brought back the handkerchief,” he managed to say, fishing it out of his pocket. “Thanks again.”

“Of _course_ , my boy,” his grandad said warmly. He took the handkerchief and folded it with exquisite care, tucking it into his pocket. “Now – sit down, would you? Let me get a look at you.” Will obliged and his grandad peered at him with such intensity that Will felt like he was under a microscope or an X-ray machine. He resisted the urge to shuffle or cough.

Finally, his grandad’s gaze lessened in intensity, though not in focus.

“You look tired,” he said sharply. “Have you been sleeping enough?”

“I – yeah,” Will said, taken aback. “Just – long hours, I suppose.”

His grandad peered at him, almost suspiciously.

“Chamomile helps _me_ sleep,” he finally said, “when I – well. I have a cup of it near on every night, these days. You might try that.”

Will nodded. “I’m – glad it helps,” he said, a little awkwardly. “How’ve you been feeling?”

“Can’t complain,” his grandad said matter-of-factly. “The food here is simply _atrocious_ , but my appetite has somewhat increased, which the doctor tells me is promising.”

“Really?” Despite himself, Will felt a spark of hope.

“I’m not so sure about it, myself,” his grandad continued, “but Lucy at least – you remember Lucy – seems to think I’m doing better. More _alert_ , she says.”

“I – I hope so.”

His grandad shrugged dismissively. “But enough about me,” he said, “how have _you_ been?”

Will blinked.

Unbidden, memories of the previous day rose in his mind: his absurd anxiety when showing Tom the flat; the ease with which he had explained the torn photos (something he had only ever told Steph about before); the hug. _The hug._

Will blinked again.

“I’m alright,” he finally said. “I think.”

His grandad frowned at him. “You don’t sound very sure of yourself, my boy,” he said.

Will shrugged and made a face. It wasn’t like he could be honest about it.

His grandad looked at him suspiciously for a moment, like he could see the eyeroll Will had managed to resist. He pursed his lips.

The awkward silence crystallized around them and Will couldn’t help but wonder if this had been a good idea. Did his grandad actually want to see him? He probably didn’t. God, he had been _sleeping_ and then Will had come in and woken him up, and for what? It would be better if he left, really. Better for everyone. He wasn’t needed, he wasn’t even _wanted_ , he –

“Been reading anything good, lately?” his grandad asked. Will snapped back to attention.

“My eyes, they aren’t the best anymore,” he continued, “but Lucy – she’s an absolute dear – she’ll sometimes read to me. Mostly poetry, you know.”

Will nodded and felt a stab of guilt as his grandad went on.

“I don’t suppose you recall that – that old Lear poem I used to tell you?” There was a new tone in his voice: one of uncertainty, or even shyness.

Will’s brow furrowed. “The – oh, the one about the Jumblies? I think so.”

His grandad looked down.

“Would you – would you tell it to me? If you remember it. I know it’s an odd favor.” The old man’s voice was hushed.

How could Will have refused him?

In the silence of the hospital room, Will spoke quietly. At first his voice was hesitant, but as he continued the lilting words came back to him like second nature:

“ _They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,_

_In a Sieve they went to sea:_

_In spite of all their friends could say,_

_On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,_

_In a Sieve they went to sea!_

_And when the Sieve turned round and round,_

_And every one cried ‘You’ll all be drowned!’_

_They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big,_

_But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!_

_In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’_

_Far and few, far and few,_

_Are the lands where the Jumblies live;_

_Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,_

_And they went to sea in a Sieve.”_

He stopped. His grandad let out a long sigh.

“That’s all I can remember,” Will said quietly.

His grandad nodded.

“Thank you, my boy,” he said softly.

For a moment the two sat together, neither speaking. Will could hear the humming and beeping of the machines, and the distant sound of footsteps through the hallway, but the noises seemed muted, somehow, like his ears were filled with cotton.

“I was never really sure what to think of that poem,” Will finally said. In the relative silence his voice was loud, but at the same time it was a relief to hear himself.

“I mean, it – it _seems_ sort of funny, I guess,” he continued, “but it also struck me as terribly sad. Maybe cos it reminded me of – of _him_.” There was something forbidden in saying his name out loud.

His grandad nodded, looking at Will strangely.

“I – I do wish you could have met him,” he said. “Your namesake. You look a great deal like him, you know – or, rather, like he did when he was your age. Before the – the _war_.” Will’s grandad pronounced the word like it was something dead and rotting.

“The, uh, the Western Front, right?”

“I’m afraid so. It – I was born afterwards, you know, so I didn’t – there was no comparison to be made for me. Only a few photos of him with the girls. But Ellie – your Great Aunt Eleanor – used to go on and on about how it had changed him. She used to say the war took him and – and broke him over its knee, like a stick of firewood.”

He shook his head with a grimace. A chill ran down Will’s spine.

“I don’t know if it was that dramatic, really,” his grandad continued. “She was a child when he came back. But he never liked to talk about it, and it was my mother made him keep his uniform and medals. And – well.”

“What?”

His grandad shifted in his seat.

“He – well, most of the time he slept as little as he could, it seemed, staying up late and rising early. I can count on one hand the number of times I saw him sleeping when I was a child. Trying to avoid the – the nightmares, I assume. I did the same for a while once I was back home, but chamomile didn’t seem to help him. There were always these bruises under his eyes.”

Will’s grandad let out a long, low sigh. His eyes had become fixed on some distant point.

“But he was – he was _gentle_. With – with us, and with my mother, and with grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I remember he was ecstatic to hear your mother was expecting you, and he simply _adored_ your sister. Always making little toys for her and her friends.”

Hearing about his family gave Will an odd feeling in his chest, both warm and painful.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” he said. “Tina –”

A lump rose in his throat. He coughed and tried again.

“She – she’s said she can vaguely remember him. But she was just a toddler, I think, when he died. I wasn’t born quite yet.”

His grandad nodded. “He was gentle,” he repeated, blinking blearily. “The war couldn’t take that from him, though it tried.”

He yawned widely and settled back into the bed.

“I’m sorry to be such a poor host, my boy,” he said, “but I – I _am_ tired.”

“That’s alright,” Will said quickly. He felt a flash of panic despite himself. Suddenly it was essential that he keep talking.

“I – I’ve been reading some E. M. Forster,” he added. “You know – _Howards End, Passage to India,_ uh – _Maurice._ ”

“Forster?” his grandad said, perking up slightly. “Oh, lovely. What was that last one?”

Will froze. “Uh – _Maurice._ It’s – it was only published after he died.”

His grandad nodded with a considering look on his face. “I’ll have to see about getting a copy of that,” he said, and Will knew he had made a huge mistake. “I do love Forster.”

“I know,” Will said.

“I – can I get you anything?” he continued. “Water, maybe? Grandad?”

His voice cracked on the last word and he hated himself for it, but his grandad smiled wearily at him.

“You remind me so much of him,” he murmured. “Water – would be lovely, my boy. Thank you.”

Will slowly got up, reluctant to look away.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

His grandad nodded, eyes already closed. “I know you will,” he said.

Will left the room, carefully closing the door behind him, and ran toward the nurses’ station. One of the nurses looked up at him from her paperwork with a raised eyebrow.

“Water?” Will said. “I – sorry. Where can I get some water, please? For my grandad, room 8.”

The nurse blinked at him. “Down the hall take a left,” she replied, tilting her chin to show the direction. “Water cooler on your right. Paper cups only, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you,” Will said, before turning and dashing down the hall. Sure enough, there was a water cooler where the nurse had said. He got two paper cups and filled them each almost to brimming, then walked as quickly and as carefully as he could with one in each hand back to his grandad’s room.

He stopped when he was nearly at the room. The door was open slightly, which he briefly thought was strange; he was sure he’d closed it. He gently pushed it open and looked inside.

His grandad was snoring softly. The sight of his thin chest still moving was a relief almost more than Will could bear. And –

Will blinked, and as quickly as it had come the relief was gone.

There was a man standing next to the bed. He had his back to the doorway, and his hands were clenched into fists.

Will’s stomach dropped when he recognized his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: anxiety, slight self-harm, mention of terminal illness, mention of PTSD (nightmares), cliffhanger ending
> 
> I'll be heading back to school soon, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to post the next chapter. Rest assured I will do it when I can! Comments, questions, and constructive criticism are all greatly appreciated. Thanks, and have a good day!  
> Edit: some changes made 11/9/20.


	3. Fathers and Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to try something new with the POVs for this chapter, and I hope it works out. I was thinking about splitting it into two, but I wanted to progress the plot beyond "Will being sad." That being said, this is a rough one lads. Trigger warnings can be found in the end notes to avoid spoilers. I hope you enjoy!

Will stood in the doorway, frozen in place, staring at his father. It was as if he were trapped inside one of his own photographs. He was afraid to move or even to breathe; if he made noise, any noise at all, then –

That was just it. He didn’t know what would happen. And the not-knowing, the _uncertainty_ , were tangled up in his chest and in his throat, making it hard to focus on anything else. Anything was better than not knowing.

Will squeezed his eyes shut and tried to bring himself back. He clenched his hand into a fist and remembered, too late, that he had been holding a cup of water.

 _“Fuck_ ,” he whispered, looking down at the mess on the floor. Then he glanced up.

His father was glaring at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and teary, and they contained such venom that Will nearly flinched. He quickly averted his eyes.

Will wanted to run. He wanted to bolt out of there – out of the hospital, out of Bromley, out of the sight and memory of anyone who had ever been unlucky enough to meet him – and keep running, until he could just curl up somewhere by himself. But he was still frozen.

Will could feel his jaw clenching, and he wondered distantly if the bones would shatter in his mouth. He clenched the hand that had held the other cup into a tight fist, until it hurt, and took a long breath. As if they had a mind of their own, his legs began to move him further into the hospital room. His father continued to glare as he made his way across the room, agonizingly slowly, and toward the hospital bed. He reached out to set the cup of water down on the side table.

Just before the cup could land on the table, Will’s father plucked it out of his hand and scowled at him.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here,” he hissed. “Get out. _Now.”_

Will could not hide his flinch. He was twenty years old again, standing in what used to be his home, looking at his crying mother and angry father. His father was going to start shouting. He always talked quietly like that before he started shouting. He was going to yell at Will about what a _disappointment_ he was, how _selfish_ he was, how _perverted_ , just like he did before –

The water in the cup sloshed over the edge and ran down the side, landing on Will’s father’s hand. Will’s father didn’t curse – he never cursed – but his scowl increased, and he looked away from Will to set the cup down on the table. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his hand.

Will stood there, still holding the cup, and watched his father as he fussed with the sleeve of his shirt.

After a moment his father glanced up and did a double take. “I said _get out_ ,” he repeated. There was a strange mixture of fury and bafflement in his voice that was as gratifying as it was terrifying.

Will swallowed hard and shook his head – a slight movement, barely more than twitches to the left and right, but it was enough.

His father took a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes were filled with tears.

“You _left_ this family,” he hissed. “You broke your mother’s heart. You broke _my_ heart. Did you know that?”

Will blinked and took an instinctual step backward. His chest hurt. There was a rushing in his ears. His father was going to yell, _he was going to yell_ –

“You left this family, you left _us_ – and, and now you think you can just come strolling back in? Is that it, you think you have that right?”

Will’s head shook back and forth, almost on autopilot. He shrank back, trying to make himself smaller; sometimes that worked. He tried to speak but no sound came out.

“You made that choice,” his father spat. “Now you – you think you can just come here and –"

“Th – That’s not—"

“—and _agitate_ your grandfather?” his father continued, his voice rising. “Is that what you’re trying to do, are you _trying_ to upset him? Or – or get him sick, with his immune system as it is? Goodness knows what kinds of diseases you’ve picked up with your _lifestyle_ –” 

“Anthony,” a different voice said, “right now the only one upsetting me is _you_.”

Will and his father whipped their heads around to see Will’s grandad sitting up in bed with a glare on his face. His voice, while creaky and soft, nonetheless had something thunderous to it.

Abruptly, Will could breathe again. He swallowed back a wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him.

“Dad,” said Will’s father, looking pale and devastated. “Dad, I – I’m sorry for waking you, I was just –”

“Just _what_ , exactly?” Will’s grandad snapped. “Driving away your own child, and not for the first time?”

Will’s father blanched. “I,” he said, looking between Will and his grandad, “I – I just, I was worried about what – what he might have been telling you. About his – uh – _predilections._ ”

“Really.” Will’s grandad said flatly. “And what _predilections_ might those be?”

Will’s father opened his mouth and closed it again.

“I see,” said Will’s grandad. He took a deep breath. “Anthony, if you can’t be civil then you can leave. I am _delighted_ to have Will here; his visits are a bright spot in such monotony.”

Will’s father grimaced but stayed quiet, standing with his arms folded. He backed away from Will and gave him another poisonous look.

Will did not look at him. He could not. Instead he walked forward and carefully slid the cup of water towards his grandad.

“Here’s, uh, your water,” he said quietly. “I – I’m sorry I couldn’t get it to you sooner.”

“ _Thank_ you, my boy,” said his grandad, picking up the water and taking a sip.

“I – I should get going,” Will stammered. “Let, uh, let you two talk. I – I’ll see you later, Grandad.”

His grandad nodded. “If you’re certain,” he said. “I look forward to your next visit.”

Will nodded, then paused. “So do I,” he added, feeling strangely desperate. The anxiety to keep talking was back from earlier. “I – I love you, Grandad.”

He heard his father scoff. The sound made him feel very small.

His grandad smiled wearily at him. “I love you too, Will,” he said softly, settling back into the bed. “Go on, now.”

Will nodded and slowly backed away from the hospital bed, trying to commit the sight of his grandad to memory. He did not turn away until he was nearly at the doorway, which he only knew because his hand had brushed against it.

His grandad was lying in the hospital bed, thin chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His eyes were already closed.

Will swallowed hard and turned to leave.

He had walked a little ways down the hallway when a hand clamped hard onto his shoulder and brought him to a sudden stop. Will turned around with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

His father had followed him out. He quickly let go of Will and glared at him like the latter was something stuck to his shoe.

“Visit _s_? As in plural?” his father whispered. “You’ve been here before to see him? How many times?”

Will’s throat worked, but he could not speak. He coughed.

“Just – just the one,” he muttered, voice raspy. “Not – I, I didn’t –”

“How did you find out? Who told you?”

Will paused.

It would be so easy to open his mouth and let the truth spill out. And it would feel _good_ , if only for a moment, to see the look on his father’s face: to know that _both_ of his children had, in their own way, defied him. It would feel good.

Except – except it would _only_ feel good for a moment, before giving way to guilt and anxiety on Tina’s behalf. And who knew what his parents might do if they found out? He knew, intellectually, that they wouldn’t actually _do_ anything to her. But emotionally, he couldn’t take the risk. He couldn’t tell on his sister just to try to shift the blame. Tina didn’t deserve that, and even if _she_ did, _Livvy_ certainly didn’t deserve it. She was just a toddler, and she didn’t need to see her relatives screaming at each other on account of an uncle she didn’t even remember.

“Friend from uni,” Will said, as nonchalantly as he could. “Told – told me.”

His father glared at him. “Your _friends_ ,” he spat, “ought to mind their own business. As should you. Come back here and – and I’ll have you thrown out. Understand?”

Will blinked. For a split second he burned with something white-hot, before it dissipated and left him feeling cold. He looked steadily at his father with narrowed eyes.

Will had never really _hated_ anyone before. Not in a way that felt real, anyway, where he _knew_ someone, interacted with them, and still hated them. He hated Thatcher, and he hated police officers, but he didn’t really _know_ Thatcher, and he’d never met any police officers under friendly circumstances. So he wasn’t sure if that really counted.

But this was different, what he felt when he looked at his father. If it was not hatred, it was exceedingly close to it. Maybe it was just the realization of who his father really was.

Will stared at his father and felt a dark, mean pride when the older man looked away first.

“Goodbye,” he said coldly. He turned and walked away from his father. Both his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

\--

The coldness inside him lasted until he got back to the flat and sat down dazedly on the couch. He looked down at his hands and saw thin, curved cuts across the middle of both his palms.

He’d have to get plasters for that. It wouldn’t take long. All he’d have to do was get up –

Will felt the ice inside him suddenly crack and he shuddered, curling up tightly with his legs drawn up to his chest. His eyes were stinging as he pressed his face against his knees. His chest was tight. All of what had happened was slamming into him, pushing him under. The look on his father’s face hovered in his mind, before it was replaced by other faces – his mother, his sister, Steph, Mark, Gethin, _Tom_ – all with the same venomous glare.

He deserved it.

He had abandoned his family. No wonder his father hated him.

Will wasn’t sure how long he spent on the couch, but after a while he could hear a faint ringing in his ears. He curled up tighter and squeezed his eyes shut. The ringing continued. After a moment, it registered to Will that the ringing was coming from something. Slowly, he looked up and glanced around the room.

The phone was ringing. Because of _course_ it was. Will watched it dully as it continued to ring, until the TAM clicked on and played its little message. There was a beep, and a pause.

 _“Hi, Will,”_ came Tom’s voice. Will sat bolt upright.

 _“Must have missed you – oh, this is Tom, by the way. Uh, Tom Blake. I’m – well, I’m probably gonna phone again pretty soon, to be honest, because I have, uh, important news. Two things, really, good news and – um –_ interesting _news. So, uh, hopefully I’ll talk to you soon. Alright, lo—uh, take care. Bye.”_

The machine clicked off and Will sank back against the couch. He put his face in his hands.

\--

“He wasn’t there?”

Joe was standing with his arms crossed. He sounded unimpressed.

“Right,” Tom retorted. “You’re telling me you pick up _every_ phone call on the _first_ bloody ring?”

“Generally pick up the first _time_ they ring,” Joe muttered under his breath.

Tom shot him a glare and redialed.

“He’s probably just busy,” he said as he held the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. Joe looked skeptical.

On the other end there was a _click_ , and a tired voice said, _“Hello? Tom?”_

Tom’s heart leaped in his chest. “Will?” He grinned at his brother.

 _“Yeah, it’s – it’s me._ ”

Will sounded – _tight_ , if Tom had to be succinct. If it was possible to sound tired and on edge at the same time, Will had accomplished it. The weariness in his voice sent a bolt of worry humming under Tom’s skin, but he shook it away.

“Good to, uh, to hear from you,” he began awkwardly. “How, um, how’ve you been?”

He ignored his brother’s incredulous stare and focused on Will’s voice.

 _“Doing fine,”_ Will said, sounding as if the words were being dragged out of him. _“Bit of a boring day, really. I – sorry I missed your call.”_

“That’s – don’t worry about that! Happens to, uh, to all of us.” Tom was beginning to suspect that telling Will not to worry was like telling water not to be wet, but he persisted.

_“How – uh, how are you? You said you had news?”_

“Yeah! I – yes, I do. And it’s – I know you’d – well I don’t _know_ , but I could imagine you might prefer to hear the, uh, _interesting_ news before the good news, to, uh, end things on a good note, but – um – the interesting news sort of follows directly _from_ the good news.”

 _“Alright,”_ Will said. _“Let’s hear it, then.”_ His voice sounded marginally less tired, with a new undercurrent of amusement.

“Okay.” Tom paused. “Okay,” he said again. “Um. I, uh – I came out to Joe. Last night.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath from the other end.

“It turned out fine!” he added quickly. “I – that’s the good news. I told Joe I was gay and he said he was fine with that, and, uh, and yeah.”

“Don’t forget the part where he started _bawling_ ,” Joe added loudly, stepping closer to the phone in spite of Tom’s attempts to fend him off, “nearly gave _me_ a goddamn heart attack --”

“Shut _up_ ,” Tom hissed, one hand over the mouthpiece. “That is _not at all relevant_.”

Joe rolled his eyes but stepped back toward the kitchen.

“Gonna work on dinner,” he called. “Don’t take too long.”

“Alright,” Tom responded, before taking his hand off the mouthpiece.

“So, yeah,” he continued. “That’s the, uh, the _good_ news.”

 _“That – that_ is _good news,”_ Will responded. His voice sounded thick, like he had suddenly developed a head cold.

 _“I – that’s_ wonderful, _Tom_ ,” he continued _. “I – fuck. That’s wonderful. Thanks for telling me.”_

“Of course,” Tom responded. He was suddenly glad Joe was not in the room. His voice dropped into something softer.

“I, uh, I mean, I don’t think I’d’ve been able to do it without, um. Your help, you know? So – so thank you for that.”

Will laughed. There was something different about the sound of it.

 _“I – I’m always glad to help,”_ he said, “ _but you don’t – you didn’t need m – my help. You did that all on your own_ _.”_

Tom couldn’t explain why, but something about the tone of Will’s voice sounded wrong _._

“Are you – alright?” he asked before he could talk himself out of it.

There was a long pause from the other end. Tom could hear Joe banging around pots and pans in the kitchen, probably trying to hide his eavesdropping.

 _“I’m doing fine,_ ” Will finally said. _“Just tired.”_

Tom heard him take a deep breath.

 _“You, uh, you said there was_ interesting _news as well?”_

Tom frowned at the phone and pushed aside the worry for later.

“I – yeah,” he said. “ _Interesting_ news. Um. So I told Joe, you know, that I was, um, gay, and it – well, I mentioned the pride parade, and – and meeting you. And. Um. He wants to meet you.”

There was another pause. Tom squeezed his eyes shut.

 _“Oh,”_ Will said. _“I thought – never mind. He wants to – to_ meet _me_? _Why?”_

“I think it’s – well, he’s pretty protective, you know, older brothers and all. So I think he just wants to, uh, to meet you and – and see what you’re like.”

He carefully did not mention anything about _intentions._

 _“See what I’m like,”_ Will repeated flatly.

“Uh – yeah. But it’s no—there’s no, it’s a casual thing. No pressure.”

 _“I see,_ ” Will replied. _“Well, I. Um. I have to think about it.”_

“Why?”

_“I – I’m pretty busy, you know? D – I don’t know when I’d be free.”_

“It wouldn’t need to be very long,” Tom said. “Just an evening – two hours, maybe?”

He heard Will take a deep breath.

 _“Like I said,”_ and there was an edge to Will’s voice, _“I – I have to think_ _about it.”_

Tom frowned. “It’s not that big of a deal,” he said. “I – I don’t get what you’re worried about. It’s just Joe.”

 _“Okay,”_ Will said, sounding abruptly defeated. _“I don’t – I don’t want to – I don’t know how to say this. But it’s like, the first thing Joe sees_ you _as is his brother. Right?”_

“Right,” Tom said slowly.

 _“You’re his – his little brother, who is also gay. But it’s, it’s like, the first thing he’s gonna see_ me _as is gay.”_

Tom frowned. “What makes you so sure?”

 _“Experience,”_ Will said bitterly. _“When someone knows you’re gay, it’s – it can be hard for them to see you as anything else, even_ if _they want to. And so for Joe, it’s like, here’s this complete stranger who – who’s openly gay, and who’s friends with his little brother, who just came out – I don’t – I don’t know how he’s gonna deal with that, and I don’t know if – if I want to find out.”_

Will’s voice grew quieter and quieter as he spoke.

“That wouldn’t happen. He’s not – Joe’s not a – a _homophobe_.” Tom could not help the note of indignation that crept into his voice.

He heard Will give a measured sigh.

 _“He isn’t to_ you, _Tom,”_ he said reluctantly. “ _I just – I don’t know how he’d be to a – a stranger. I’m sorry. I –_ _I need time to think it over.”_

Tom blinked. He remembered the torn photographs, and the slur painted across the front of _Gay’s the Word_ , and the can thrown at his head. A surge of guilt rose in him.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t – think about that.”

 _“It’s okay,”_ Will replied quickly. _“I – I’m sure he’s fine. Just – past experience.”_

“If it helps,” Tom said, “I’m gonna – I’d be there too. With, uh, with you. If that’s okay.”

 _“That would_ _help,”_ Will said quietly.

Tom heard another voice on the other end, in the background.

 _“Sorry, Steph just got here,”_ Will said. Tom could faintly hear the two of them speaking on the other end, though it sounded like Will had covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

After a moment, Will said, _“I need to go now, Tom. I’m sorry.”_

His voice still sounded wrong.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Tom said quickly. He hoped the worry didn’t show in his voice.

“I’ll – can we talk tomorrow?” he continued. “Same time?”

 _“Alright,”_ Will responded. _“Same time. I – I’ll think about what you asked. Take care.”_

“You too,” Tom said. “You – take care, Will.”

Will gave a soft laugh that still didn’t sound quite right.

 _“Thanks,”_ he said quietly.

There was a _click_ on the other end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: anxiety, abuse (verbal/emotional), homophobia, Will's dad, implied depression (Will's in a bad place right now).  
> Notes:  
> TAM stands for "telephone answering machine."  
> Edit: significant details of this chapter have been changed. Please let me know what you all think!


	4. First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I know it's been far too long, and I'm sorry for that -- school has been really busy and I just haven't found the time. It took a while for me to write this chapter, and I'm not entirely happy with it -- it's quite a rollercoaster of emotions -- but I hope you enjoy and I welcome any suggestions you have! Trigger warnings can be found in the end notes for this chapter.

Tom took a bite of his sandwich and looked up again at Mr. Jondalar, who was sitting across from him. It was lunchtime at his first day of work, and Tom’s head was swirling with Bollywood songs after listening to the same record for four hours straight. Beneath that, however, the conversation he’d had with Will the night before still itched at the back of his mind.

“Mr. Jondalar, sir,” he said, “could I ask you a question?”

Mr. Jondalar did not look up from his food. “You just did,” he said.

“I – oh, yeah.”

There was a pause.

“But can I?”

“Go ahead, Mr. Blake,” said Mr. Jondalar, taking a bite of his sandwich. His look of longsuffering patience as he chewed was almost as good as Joe’s; Tom wondered if he had younger brothers of his own.

“I –” Tom paused and wondered how to phrase it.

“I have a friend,” he began, “who, uh, who I – well, I’m worried about h—this friend. They _say_ things are good, are alright, but I don’t know if – if I believe them.”

Mr. Jondalar squinted at him. “That is not a question.”

“Well, I – so what do I do? What _should_ I do? I mean, I – I wanna help them, but I also wanna – I want them to trust me. I want to trust them.”

Mr. Jondalar nodded slowly, his face screwed up in thought. He took another bite.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Blake,” he said, “but – hm. It sounds to me like this friend has to _want_ to be helped, if you want to help them and still keep their trust. There – in my experience, there is only so much you can do when – when a friend refuses help or denies that something is wrong.”

“But what _can_ I do, then?”

Mr. Jondalar raised his hands with a slight shrug.

“Be there for him,” he said simply. “Make sure this friend knows he can go to you for help. I’m afraid the rest is, is up to him.”

Tom nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Jondalar,” he said. “That’s, uh, that’s good advice.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Blake,” said Mr. Jondalar. “Now get back to work.”

Tom stifled a sigh. At least Mr. Jondalar had changed the background music.

\--

Four hours later, Tom stepped out into the July afternoon and shivered. In contrast to earlier, the air was cold and held the promise of rain. And Tom had managed to forget his umbrella. That figured.

Tom walked on, casting an occasional wary glance up at the sky, before it occurred to him that he was heading _away_ from his and Joe’s flat, not toward it. He stopped.

When had it become a routine for him, to visit Will? More to the point, would it be worth it? What if Will didn’t want to see him after – was it a fight they’d had, the night before? A _disagreement_ , certainly. On the one hand, it irked him to see Will lumping Joe in with the kinds of arseholes who would vandalize a shopfront or heckle a pride parade, when he didn’t even know him. But on the other – if Will’s own parents had been so shitty to him, what kind of faith would he have that Tom’s brother wouldn’t do the same? Joe’s words about _intentions_ surfaced in his mind again, and he grimaced.

It was settled, then. He would visit the café, and _if_ Will was there, _if_ he was willing, he would talk with him more about coming over. Even just a chat on the phone with Joe would be progress, for the both of them. Besides, he thought, it probably wouldn’t start raining until later.

Tom squared his shoulders and started walking. When he was about halfway there, the sky finally opened and the rain began to fall, lightly at first but increasing in intensity.

Tom sighed and walked faster.

\--

When Tom finally arrived at _The Piping Kettle_ , sopping wet, there was only a handful of customers inside. He walked in, leaving a trail of water behind him, and immediately flopped into one of the chairs with a squelch and a groan, his eyes squeezed shut. After a moment he reluctantly opened them and sat up in the chair. Like a reflex, he looked over at the café counter and mentally picked out the tallest blond worker; the relief at seeing Will was reflexive too.

As if he could feel Tom’s eyes on him, Will looked over. He was wearing a long-sleeved blue button-up with a white apron, and the circles beneath his eyes were as dark as day-old bruises. He looked the way he had sounded on the phone the day before: exhausted yet frantic.

Tom felt the worry rising in him again, but he pushed it aside and smiled as cheerily as he could when he was soaked to the skin.

Will’s eyes widened, and Tom saw him briefly duck beneath the counter. Before Tom could stand up, Will was walking rapidly towards him with his brow furrowed. In one hand he held a white towel and tucked under his other arm was a _WET FLOOR_ sign.

Will stopped about an arm’s length from Tom and held out the towel. For a moment Tom stared up at him dumbly.

Will made a peculiar face. “You’re soaked through,” he finally said, almost scoldingly. “Here – dry yourself off. Don’t want to catch cold.” He brandished the towel at Tom, who took it hesitantly and wiped at his face. When he looked back up Will was placing the sign next to the trail of water. He straightened up and glanced over at Tom.

“Did – did you _walk_ here?” His voice was incredulous.

“Uh – yes? Yes.”

“In the _rain_? Without an umbrella?”

Tom shrugged, feeling stupid. Maybe this had been a bad idea after all.

“Forgot my umbrella,” he muttered. “And it – wasn’t raining until I was almost here anyway.”

Will’s face closed off and he took a step back.

“Of – of course,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – I just – I’ll just be a moment.”

He ducked back toward the counter. Tom watched him go with the feeling that he had missed something. He scrubbed at his head with the towel and sighed.

A few moments later Will returned with a steaming pot, two teacups, and another towel.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he said quietly as he set down the pot and carefully poured tea into one of the cups, handing it to Tom. “I’m – surprised, is all. And I – it’d be pretty shit if you got sick just because you wanted to – to have some tea.” His voice dropped to a mumble near the end.

Tom was about to protest that _he absolutely had not walked through the rain just for some **tea**_ when his brain stuttered to a stop, because Will was stepping behind him and saying, hesitantly, “Do you – I mean – your, your jacket’s soaked as well. Would – I can, uh –”

Tom twisted in his seat to look up at Will again. The confusion must have shown in his face, because Will turned red and looked down.

“Never mind,” he said hastily, before draping the towel – the _warm_ towel – around Tom’s shoulders, tucking it under his chin. It only lasted a moment before Will ducked back in front of him and sat down, but Tom could still feel the touch of his hands like a brand on his skin, through the shirt and jacket.

He sipped at the tea to distract himself and could not help the noise of surprise at the taste.

“Chamomile,” Will said. “Sorry, I – I ought to have asked. But it’s good for – warming up.”

“It _is_ good,” Tom said. “Thank you.”

Will nodded, looking relieved. He kept fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt and the plasters on his hands – he had them on _both_ hands this time, Tom noticed, across the palm of each. He frowned. Something about the look of them bothered him, in a way he couldn’t explain. People got plasters all the time, didn’t they? What made these so peculiar?

“You alright?” he asked before he could talk himself out of it.

Will looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “I ought to be asking _you_ that, I think,” he answered.

Tom shrugged. “I – I’ve been told my, uh, immune system is _robust_ ,” he said. This statement was cast into doubt when he sneezed twice in rapid succession.

“Not a _word_ ,” he muttered thickly.

Will gave a suspicious-sounding cough.

“I’ll be fine,” Tom continued after blowing his nose on a napkin. “It’s just – you said you were tired, when we last talked.”

“Oh,” Will said. He looked down at the table. “Yeah. Well, I – I’m better now, thanks.”

“Sure,” Tom said. Then, because he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, he kept talking. “Was – I mean, I don’t – I don’t want to pry. But if you wanna talk –”

He saw Will stiffen slightly and promptly shut up.

“Thanks,” Will said, and his voice had the hint of an edge in it again. “Thanks. But I – you don’t need to worry about me.”

His hands were shaking minutely and clasped together in front of him, resting on the table. From just across the table the circles beneath his eyes were even more prominent.

Tom set down the teacup. He summoned up all his strength and reached across the table to take Will’s hands in his.

Will startled, but he did not pull away. “Your hands are _freezing_ ,” he said.

“The tea helps,” Tom said absently. “Listen. Will.”

Will froze and his eyes widened.

Tom took a deep breath.

“I don’t –”

“Sorry,” Will blurted. His eyes widened even further. “I mean – shit. I’m sorry for – for interrupting you. It – it was rude.”

“I –” Tom paused to look at him. He looked almost – panicked? Almost unconsciously, Tom’s grip on his hands increased.

“It’s – was gonna say it’s not a bother,” he said, “for you to tell me something’s wrong. Honest. I mean – we’re mates, right? We’re – friends?”

He held his breath.

Will looked at him warily. “I – I’d like to think so,” he finally admitted in a quiet voice. “But you – you don’t have to worry about me.”

Tom could feel his hands trembling still. “I’d _like_ to,” he replied.

Will shut his eyes tightly and sighed. Tom could see his throat working.

“My – my grandad is sick,” he said finally, in a quiet voice. He stared down at their entwined hands. “I’ve been visiting him in hospital. And –”

He swallowed. His face shuttered like a closing window.

“It’s just – it’s been – difficult,” he finished.

Tom had the feeling there was more to the story, but he merely nodded. Absentmindedly, he ran a thumb over the knuckles of Will’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s – it’s bloody awful when a relative’s sick. Are you, uh – are you two close?”

Will shrugged. His eyes were getting red.

“He’s – I mean,” he said thickly, “he’s the only – the only relative of mine who, um – when I came out to him, he was fine with it. So – I guess?”

Tom nodded. Will’s hands were warm under his. With what remained of his courage, he lightly squeezed them before letting go and picking up his teacup again. He hoped it wasn’t clear how fast his heart was beating.

Will sighed and wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Sorry,” he muttered, blinking hard. He cleared his throat, then poured himself some tea and took a sip. “Thanks. Um. How – how’ve you been?”

The change of subject was a relief and a disappointment at the same time.

“Alright,” Tom said. “Had my, uh, first day at work today, so.”

“Yeah?” Will leaned back and looked at him appraisingly over the rim of the teacup. “That’s the – don’t tell me – the, the records store, yeah? You, uh, interviewed for ‘em last week?”

Tom blinked. There was a peculiar sort of warmth in his chest at the thought that Will had remembered something he’d said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Uh – yeah. It went alright. Not a fan of the tie, but – job’s a job.”

Will nodded sympathetically. “If it’s, uh, any consolation,” he said, turning pink, “um, it – it looks nice. The tie. Very – posh.”

“ _Posh_?” Tom repeated. “Shame, that is. I was going for punk.”

Will looked confused, and for a moment Tom regretted every decision that he had ever made. But then Will’s face cleared and he let out a surprised laugh – a small one, but one that sounded much better than it had the night before.

“Slightly missed the mark, then,” he said with a grin. Tom grinned back and sipped at his tea. He glanced over at the window and his grin disappeared.

“Really coming down, isn’t it?” he muttered. “Bloody hell. And I’ve got to get going or Joe’ll go fucking ballistic.”

Will followed his gaze and grimaced. “You want to borrow my umbrella?” he asked. “I – I’ve an extra at the flat. It’s no trouble, really.”

“I – if you’ve got an extra,” Tom said hesitantly. “I – I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“Course not,” said Will. “It’s – it’s no bother at all, really. Here.”

He stood and walked behind the counter, then emerged a moment later holding a black umbrella, which he handed to Tom. Tom took the umbrella, then paused. He had the feeling he’d missed something, again.

Will frowned at him as he sat back down. “Something the matter?”

Tom stared at the umbrella, then at Will, and floundered.

“Oh – no, that’s not – I – I thought you meant – _shit_. I thought you meant going to – to your flat. I – if it’s not too much trouble, I’ll – I’ll take the extra one.”

He handed the umbrella back and Will took it hesitantly.

“You sure? I mean, it – it’s not far to the flat, you know that.”

Tom refrained from giving his opinion on the distance between the café and the flat.

“Still,” he said. “I – we, we could walk to the flat, since it’s _not far_ , and then I could, uh, borrow the extra umbrella? If that’s alright? Shouldn’t take too long. That – that way you don’t get drenched either.”

He held his breath and managed not to cringe at his own words.

Will looked surprised. “I – alright,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” said Tom, more easily than he felt. “That’s – fine with me.”

The idea was fine with him as Will finished his tea and excused himself to close up the café with the other workers, wiping down tables and stacking the chairs on top with practiced ease. It was still fine with him as Will led him to the door and, apologetically, asked him to wait outside while he mopped the water trail he had left. It continued to be fine with him up until Will had turned off the lights and locked the café doors behind him, double- and triple-checking the locks. At that point, when it was just the two of them in the hallway outside the café, Tom began to have second thoughts. It did not help when Will pulled on a bright yellow raincoat that had no business looking as charming as it did, or when he started whistling something tuneless and tossed the umbrella in the air before catching it one-handed.

He blanched and nearly dropped the umbrella when Tom looked over. “Uh - nice echo in here,” he said awkwardly, looking down.

Tom did not reply; his chest was abruptly overfull with an emotion he could not name. It took him a moment to remember himself, and when he did he saw that Will had moved closer.

Will looked over at him. “You ready?” he asked.

His face was very close. Tom had the thought that if he just stood on his toes a bit – just a tad – they would be at equal height. If he stood on his toes. Or if Will crouched a bit or leaned over. If Tom were to put his hands on Will’s shoulders and carefully – _carefully_ – tug them down, towards him, or if he were to push on Will’s shoulders to boost himself up, just a little, then that would make them equal height, and then he could –

Tom blinked. Could what?

“Yeah,” he said, distracted.

Will smiled at him. “Come on, then,” he said.

\--

When they arrived at the flat, it looked even smaller than it had the first time.

Will led him in and hesitated.

“I – while you’re here,” he said, fidgeting with himself, “um, there’s – would, would you like something to eat? I made some, uh, some cream puffs the other day. Stress baking, you know.”

“Cream puffs? You just – you just _made_ some?”

Will nodded nervously, like it was a normal thing to just whip up something like cream puffs from scratch.

“Trying to get the hang of, uh, choux pastry,” he said. “It’s tricky. Um. This is my third batch and – well. I don’t know how it is.”

Tom blinked. “Sure,” he said. “I – yeah.” He certainly wasn’t going to say no to free pastries.

Will’s face brightened. “Lovely,” he said. “I’ll get that and fetch the spare umbrella.”

He ducked into the bedroom and emerged a moment later with another, identical black umbrella, which he handed to Tom.

“There’s that,” he said, “and now –”

The phone began to ring and Will cocked his head, looking puzzled. He walked over to the phone and picked it up.

“Hello?” he said.

There was a pause.

Will’s face went slack and his eyes widened.

“ _Tina_?” he asked in a hushed voice. His other hand went to cover his mouth, but Tom could see the beginning of a smile underneath it. 

“Tina,” he said, and there was something raw in his voice, “it’s so good to – how are you? How’s – how’s Livvy?”

There was a pause, and Will’s brow furrowed. His smile disappeared and his grip on the phone became white-knuckled.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, Tina – I didn’t tell him, I didn’t, I promise – Tina, _please_ –”

He broke off and stared at the phone with a stricken look on his face. Tom saw him mouth something silently. Even as he placed the phone back on its hook and made his way back to the couch, Will seemed to be shrinking in on himself. He sat down with a shudder and looked at Tom with what seemed to be a herculean effort. There was a horrible glassy look in his eyes.

“It’s – it’s getting late,” he said shakily. “Y-Your brother will be worried.”

Tom couldn’t help but gape at him. It took him a moment to recover his speech, and when he did his voice was deafening in the small room.

“Will,” he said, “you – you _can’t_ be serious.”

Will swallowed hard. “It’s n-nearly half six,” he said in more of a croak than a voice. “I’m s—I’m surprised Joe hasn’t phoned already.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Tom nearly shouted. He felt a sickening lurch of guilt when Will flinched.

“I – Will,” he continued in a quieter tone, “I’m not fucking leaving you here by yourself. Not after – Jesus, what happened?”

Will shook his head and stared down at his lap. His hands were twisted around each other and squeezing with white-knuckled force.

“My – sister,” he said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “She – we can’t talk anymore. Dad suspects. ‘S my fault.”

“Suspects – suspects _what_?”

“That – that we’ve been _talking_.” Will let out a horrible, choked parody of a laugh. “It’s true. Or it was.”

He wiped at his eyes with his hands, cleared his throat, and glanced up at Tom. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I just – I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t.”

“Don’t have to,” Tom said immediately. “I – is – is Steph coming home soon, maybe?”

Will shook his head. “Doubt it,” he replied. “But I – I’ll be alright. Really.”

“Please,” he added quickly, as Tom opened his mouth to argue. “Please. I – I’m sorry, I just – I need – I’d like to be alone. And your brother _will_ be worried. You said it yourself.”

Tom could not help the hurt in his chest.

“I know,” he said, “but – I – I won’t talk or anything if you don’t want me to. I’ll be quiet. I – I could phone Joe from here, to check in.”

Will shook his head and let out something between a chuckle and a sob. He put his face in his hands.

“You’re a good person,” he said, his voice slightly muffled. “You – I hope you know that, Tom. But I’m not – ‘s not like I’m gonna do anything – stupid.”

Tom shrugged. “I just – I don’t think you should be by yourself. I mean, it’s not – it’s not like I think you’d – I – I don’t think you’d do anything stupid, but. I dunno.”

Will sighed and squeezed his hands together in his lap. He looked at Tom again, and this time his face was closed off.

“Thank you,” he said, “but – you’ve got to get home. I’ve kept you too long already, don’t – don’t know what your brother’d say if you tried to stay longer. I’ll be – I’ll be fine.”

His voice was steadier than it had been, and his gaze wasn’t as glassy, though there was something distant in his eyes that seemed about to emerge.

Tom frowned. “Alright,” he said, standing up. His voice came out sharper than he meant it to. “Alright. If you – if you want me to leave, then I’ll bloody well leave.” It wasn’t fair to say, and he regretted it as soon as he saw Will’s jaw clench, but by then it was too late to take it back.

“Thanks for lending me the umbrella,” was what he said instead. He hoped it sounded like an apology.

Will nodded. “Get home safe,” he said, and Tom couldn’t tell what it sounded like.

Tom stood there for a moment, frozen, then swallowed hard and turned to leave.

He had only taken a step when Will appeared in front of him again.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not looking at Tom. “Nearly forgot.” He pressed something wrapped in brown paper into Tom’s hand, then stepped back.

“Open it when – when you’re home,” Will said. He seemed to have gone somewhere inside himself.

Looking at him, Tom had another wordless impulse. If he were to reach out –

Will glanced at him and his eyes were teary.

That decided it. Before he could think, Tom reached out and wrapped his arms around Will. He felt him stiffen, and briefly considered letting go, but then Will seemed to sag into him with a single, choked-off sob.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I’m sorry. ‘M a mess today.”

“It’s alright,” Tom said. He rubbed one hand up and down Will’s back, like he was soothing a child. He could faintly feel the bumps of Will’s spine through the shirt fabric. “It’s alright, Will.”

\--

Tom couldn’t have said what time it was when he left the flat, or when he arrived at Joe’s flat. When he saw Joe with his arms crossed, however, he knew it was late.

“Do you know what time it is, Tom?”

His brother spoke in a calm, even tone, which was a sign he was well and truly angry, but they weren’t at full names yet. There was still hope.

“Uh,” said Tom, glancing at his watch, “it’s – about half seven?”

“That’s right,” said Joe, still in that same even tone. “And what time did you finish with work?”

“Um – around half three, four?”

“Then _why_ ,” said Joe, “did it take you _four hours_ to get home?” He was beginning to sound remarkably like their mother.

“Uh – I – I was with a friend. Lost track of time.”

Joe nodded, looking suspicious. “Which friend was this?”

There was a long pause. Tom tried to think of a name – literally any name – and came up blank. He could feel his face turning red.

Joe’s eyes narrowed.

“Was it – it wasn’t that _Will_ , was it?”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Tom said without thinking.

The look on Joe’s face hardened.

“What were you two doing?” he asked, sounding more urgent.

“Just talking, just –”

“Tom, if he’s – if he’s making you –”

“He isn’t _making me_ do anything!” Tom’s voice had risen into nearly a shout. “He’s not – Christ, Joe, just ‘cause we’re both gay doesn’t, doesn’t mean –”

He cut himself off.

“Doesn’t mean I – we’re just friends,” he muttered, looking down. “He’s my friend. That’s _it_.”

When he dared to look up, Joe’s expression had changed into one of mingled resignation and amusement.

“Tom,” he said, “that’s the biggest crock of shit I have _ever_ heard you say. And I was the one had to listen to your bloody ridiculous excuses for missing school.”

He sighed heavily and rested his head in one hand.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Now I’ve _really_ got to meet him. He – he say anything about that, by the way?”

Tom blinked. “Um,” he said. “No. It – it didn’t come up.”

Joe sighed again. “Should have known,” he muttered.

He stood up from the couch with a groan. “Don’t suppose he bothered to feed you, at least?”

Tom blinked and pulled the paper-wrapped bundle from his pocket. Unwrapping the paper revealed two slightly squashed cream puffs. 

“I think he did,” he said quietly. He could not hold back a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: implied depression/anxiety  
> Edit: I made a lot of changes to this chapter and would love to hear from you all!


	5. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone and happy early Thanksgiving! This one is a shorter chapter, but it's very important plot wise (imo) and you'll see why soon enough. Enjoy!  
> Potential trigger warnings will be in the end notes to avoid spoilers.

Will was setting out tiny, golden-brown cream puffs when he heard someone come up to the counter.

“Excuse me,” said the man. His voice sounded vaguely familiar, though Will couldn’t place it.

“So sorry,” the man continued, “I – could, uh, could I speak to the manager please?”

Will looked up and hid his frown. It was certainly more polite than many previous requests had been, but the question still put him on edge.

“Uh – yeah, of course. Over here, sir.”

He led the man over to Lauri and went back to restocking. After a few moments he saw the man leave and breathed a sigh of relief, though he could not have said precisely why.

“Did you know him?”

Will startled slightly; Lauri’s approach was as silent as ever. “That man? No, I don’t. Why?”

Lauri looked uncharacteristically nervous. “Because,” she said, her accent stronger than it usually was, “he, uh, asked about you. By name. He wanted to know if you worked here.”

A chill ran down Will’s spine. “He say what his name was?”

Lauri nodded. “Blake, he said.”

“ _Blake?_ ”

“Yes. Do – do you know him?”

“Yeah,” Will said. He dragged one hand down his face and sighed. “Yeah, I think I do.”

He walked to the entrance of the café and looked out with reluctance, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t spot him. It would be an innocent mistake. They just missed each other. Nothing personal. Will would eventually muster up the courage to meet him formally –

Will looked around and saw the man staring at him from outside a flower shop.

He stifled a sigh. So much for that.

“Lauri,” he called, “alright if I take my break now?” Upon receiving a confirmation, he pulled off his apron and walked toward the man, trying to stop his heart from pounding out of his chest.

Looking more closely, the family resemblance was clear. The man had similar features as Tom – blue eyes, dark hair – though he looked older, and much more nervous.

Will swallowed hard and clenched his hands into fists as he came up to the man. His apron was sure to be wrinkled, but he could not bring himself to care. Will noticed as he looked at the man that he was slightly taller than him; this did not help the situation.

The man looked confused. “Yes?”

Will tried to speak and nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Uh – you were looking for Will Schofield?”

The man’s face cleared as he looked at Will. “You – _you’re_ Will?” he asked.

Will nodded and stuck out the hand not clenching the apron, willing it not to shake. “Nice to – to meet you,” he said.

The man stared at his hand for a moment, looking wary. He finally reached out and shook it briefly, dropping it almost instantly and grimacing slightly. Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’m Joe,” the man said. “Tom’s, uh, brother. Nice to, uh, meet you as well.”

Will nodded. The two stood in silence for a brief moment before Will steeled himself and said, in one breath, “You – I imagine you have questions for me?”

Joe swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I – perhaps it’d be better to, uh, go somewhere private where we can chat?”

Will set his jaw. “I’m fine here,” he said, “or – or we could go back to the café and sit.” He had absolutely no intention of going anywhere _private_ with someone who acted like shaking hands with him was a biomedical hazard. At least in a public area, Joe would be slightly less likely to yell slurs or try to beat him up, or slightly less likely to get away with it.

Joe frowned. “I – I don’t know about that. Some of the, uh, questions are fairly – personal.”

Will narrowed his eyes. He could feel the irritation beginning to simmer.

“If they’re ‘fairly personal,’” he said, as mildly as he could, “why ask me them in – in the first place? Better yet, why _not_ ask me them with Tom around –”

He cut himself off at the scowl on Joe’s face. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

“That,” said Joe, his voice dark, “is one of the questions I had for you, funnily enough.”

He stepped closer and it took everything Will had not to step back or flinch.

Briefly, Will saw the look on Joe’s face falter. But then the other shook his head and the scowl returned.

“What _exactly_ ,” Joe said, “are your _intentions_ with my little brother?”

Will crossed his arms. “Tom’s my friend,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking. “I’d – I’d like to think I’m his friend. That’s all.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “I – you know, I don’t quite believe you.”

Will’s chest hurt. He tried to take a deep breath, with only some success.

“I have to get back to work,” he said as calmly as he could. “I – I’m happy to chat with you, but not – not if it’s going to be you assuming I’m some sort of gross stereotype.” He let out another shaky breath and tried to focus on keeping himself upright.

To his credit, Joe looked slightly abashed, though it was hard to tell. The scowl disappeared and did not return.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it sounded genuine. “I’m – not good at this. You’re – to be honest,” and his voice dropped into a whisper, “you’re the first, uh, gay person I’ve ever really talked to. Besides, uh, Tom, of course.”

Will blinked. “Really?” he said, only half-aware of his words. “I couldn’t tell.”

Joe looked hard at him but seemed to let it go. Will couldn’t tell for sure with the haze that was settling over him, but he snapped back to attention at the sound of Joe’s voice.

“Why don’t – “

He heard Joe clear his throat and start again.

“I – could we – could we go to the café, like you suggested? Please? Unless you’re busy.”

Will swallowed hard. “Alright,” he said. “My – my break is a quarter of an hour, then I have to get back to work.”

Joe nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “Really. I just – I want Tom to be safe.”

Will might have responded, but he wasn’t quite sure; he was vaguely aware of his feet moving back toward the café, to a table in the corner. He slumped into the seat facing the wall, with his back to the counter; he did not want to be boxed in. Joe took the other seat carefully.

Under the table, Will clenched his hands into fists until his fingers ached. He took another deep breath.

“Ask away,” he said, hoping his voice sounded light.

Joe nodded and pulled out a stack of – good God, were those _notecards_? Will gaped.

“I didn’t want to forget anything,” Joe said defensively.

Will swallowed hard.

“So, to begin,” Joe said, “your name is Will?”

“Yeah. Uh. Will Schofield.”

Joe nodded and made a note. “And you’re – how old?”

“Twenty-two, uh – Mr. Blake.”

Joe grimaced. “Please,” he said, “you, uh – you can call me Joe. ‘Mr. Blake’ makes me feel old.”

_You don’t like being called ‘Mr. Blake’?_

Will nodded and – absurdly – stifled a laugh.

“Twenty-two,” Joe muttered to himself. “Okay. And, uh – just to, uh, get this out of the way,” he continued, “do – do you happen to know how old Tom is?”

Will shook his head bemusedly.

“He’s twenty,” Joe continued. “Birthday’s not til next March. So he, uh, you know.”

He looked at Will expectantly, who frowned.

“I – I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.

Joe looked down at the table and cleared his throat. “He’s – that is to say, he’s a minor. Technically. So he can’t – I, I know it’s none of my business if you two _decide_ to, uh – but until that time, uh, you two can’t. Um.”

“Can’t _what_?” The anxiety was being replaced with irritation. Will could feel himself blush, to his own dismay. He felt stretched thin, about to snap.

“You know _bloody well what_ ,” Joe hissed. “You two can’t – if you had any ideas about, about currently _pursuing_ anything with him –”

“Right,” Will snapped, “because that’s all we ever think about, isn’t it? On meeting anyone that’s my first – that was my, my absolute first thought when Tom _ran into me_ with a – with a sodding head wound.”

“I’m not – sorry, a _head wound_?” Joe looked thunderstruck.

Will blinked. _Wound_ may have been too strong of a term.

“Well – I – it was bleeding a bit,” he said after a moment. “Some skinheads – you get ‘em at every parade – I think they threw something at him and he ran into me.”

Joe looked troubled. “I saw the plaster, but I didn’t think – he didn’t mention _that_. This was at, uh, your Pride event?”

Will nodded. “I always keep plasters on me,” he said, “so, uh – it was no trouble, really. I asked if he needed A&E, too, but – he said he was fine.”

Joe nodded and stared down at his notecards for a moment, his face troubled.

There was something new in his gaze when he looked back at Will, and the weight of it settled on Will’s back and shoulders.

“Thank you,” Joe said, “for – for doing that. You didn’t have to.”

“I was happy to do it,” said Will.

Joe leaned back and looked at him, then sighed.

“Alright,” he said, sounding tired. “Alright.” He pinched at the space between his eyebrows with one hand.

“Would,” he began, “would you be available for dinner sometime this week? The three of us – you, me, and Tom. I – I’ll – I won’t ask personal – too personal questions, I promise.”

Will looked across the table at him.

“And what,” he said hesitantly, “what counts as ‘too personal,’ exactly?”

Joe nodded. “That’s fair,” he said. “I – no questions that – that I wouldn’t be comfortable asking in front of my little brother.”

Will tilted his head. That could mean a lot of things.

_If it helps, I’m gonna – I’d be there too_. _With, uh, with you. If that’s okay._

“Tom would also be there?” he asked, just to be sure. Joe nodded.

“Okay,” Will finally said. “I can – maybe tomorrow, uh, evening? I have to check with my flatmate.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Flatmate?”

God’s sake. Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Her name is Steph,” he said dryly, “and – let’s just say we aren’t the least bit _interested_ in each other.”

Joe frowned at him. After a moment, his face lit up with embarrassment.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I – I see. Sorry. Um – that sounds good.”

He scribbled something down on one of the notecards and handed it to Will. It was an address.

“My flat,” said Joe. “That’s – well, Tom’s told you, I imagine, that he’s staying with me. Um. Shall we say, uh, seven? Tomorrow evening?”

Will nodded and tried to look more certain than he felt. “I, uh – yeah. Seven should work.”

“Good.” Joe nodded briskly and stood up, gathering his things. “I – I ought to be going now.”

Will stood up as well, hoping his relief was not too obvious. “If you’re sure,” he said politely.

Joe nodded absently and glanced at his watch. “It – it’s been a pleasure,” he said quickly.

“The pleasure’s been mine,” Will responded automatically. He stood and watched as Joe left, then slipped the apron back over his head and hurried to the kitchen. A kind of haze was settling over his vision again.

Will turned on the water and began to scrub at the dishes in the sink, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

“It’s okay,” he muttered to himself, trying to control his breathing. “It’s _okay._ ” He had just talked to the intimidating older brother of someone who was becoming increasingly important to him, and agreed to dinner. It was no big deal. No big deal.

His hands hurt. He looked down to see they were raw and red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings:  
> implied/referenced panic attacks, or the beginnings of one  
> mild homophobia 
> 
> Let me know what you all think of this new development! Thank you all for reading! Have a good day!


	6. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long, but here's another chapter to (hopefully) tide you over. I have big plans for what's coming next, don't worry! I hope you all had/have a pleasant holiday season and a happy new year! Trigger warnings for this chapter can be found at the end.

Tom didn’t come by the café that day, and it was _still_ absolutely ridiculous for Will to feel disappointed about it. He had _said_ his brother would get worried, so it made perfect sense for him to go right home. And it wasn’t like the café was nearby, either. Besides, two Blakes in one day might have been too much for Will’s nerves. So why did he feel gutted as he folded up his apron and got ready to leave?

He paused and blinked. Two Blakes in one day – but he had agreed to more than that, hadn’t he? Two Blakes at their flat, at _dinner_. By himself.

His chest was tight. The walls suddenly seemed to be pressing in on him. Christ, what had he done? And why – _why_ had Joe come by himself, when he apparently didn’t even know what Will bloody well looked like? How much had Tom told his brother about him?

Pushing open the door, Will nearly bowled over the person standing outside the cafe before he caught himself. The brief glimpse of brown hair sent a small, painful spike of hope shooting through him, until he recognized Lauri. He promptly felt awful for being disappointed.

“Will?” Lauri looked worried, and it only made him feel worse. “You are alright?”

Will nodded with only a little effort. “Sorry,” he muttered, not quite looking at her. “I’m fine. Had a – a chat with that Blake fellow.”

Lauri’s voice hardened. “Did he – do something? Or say something?”

“He – we just had a chat. It’s fine.” He glanced over at her and quickly looked away; the earnest worry in Lauri’s eyes was becoming unbearable. “Sorry, I – long day. Better get home.”

Lauri nodded reluctantly. “If – if you are sure,” she said. “Tell – tell Stephanie I said hello, please.”

This at last brought a small smile to Will’s face. “I’ll tell her,” he said, “though I – I’m sure she’d _prefer_ hearing it from you.”

Lauri blushed and hid her laughter behind her hands, waving him away as he walked home.

The lightness in Will’s chest lasted for a few minutes, but soon enough his mind returned to the memory of Joe’s visit – though _reconnoiter_ might have been a better word, he thought bitterly.

In a small, twisted part of himself, he wondered briefly if Tom had sent his brother as – as what? Some kind of _attack dog_? It was a ridiculous thought, and he shoved it down before it could spread. Tom wouldn’t have done that. He had been by the store before, and he had _said_ he would be there when Joe talked to Will. Tom wouldn’t have done that, which meant Joe had come of his own volition – to suss him out, maybe? To ask him shitty questions and talk about _intentions_ and glare at him like he was a protective father whose daughter was on her first date? It made the most sense, but it was still fucking stupid. And it wasn’t worth mentioning to Tom – it’d only cause problems, and Will was not about to fuck up another sibling relationship.

No, he would show up, and be polite, and bring something homemade – something _impressive_ – and make no indication he had ever previously met Joe Blake.

\--

When Will got to the flat and told Steph about what had happened, she reacted about how he had expected.

“When I first met you, Bromley,” she said, “I thought you were a bit dim, to be honest. But then as I got to know you better, I realized my first impression was a bit off. You’re not _just_ a fucking moron -- you’re a _romantic_ as well. Jesus, Bromley, have you got a death wish? You’re going to his homophobic brother’s _flat? Alone?_ Shall I start making arrangements for the funeral now?”

“I think,” said Will, “you’re being a bit dramatic.” He pulled one of his recipe books from the kitchen shelf and flipped through it, glancing at the pages. Something simple that _looked_ complicated, that was what he needed. And something he had the ingredients for.

“Oh, you _think?_ ” Steph shot back. “Were you _thinking_ when you agreed to this? What exactly was going through your head?”

Will reached the _M_ section of the recipe book and looked through it. Madeleines – that could work. Simple enough ingredients. If it was good enough for Proust, it was damn well good enough for the Blakes.

He turned to Steph. “I know it’s stupid,” he said, “but I – Joe said I was the first – the first _out_ person he’d ever spoken to, besides Tom. Maybe he just needs to learn how to interact with – with us.”

Steph gave him a look. “Don’t try to make this about gay-straight relations or some shit,” she said flatly. “Got nothing to do with it and we both know it.”

Instead of replying, Will turned away and crouched to pull out the madeleine pan, setting it on the counter carefully. He stared at it for a long moment, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He took a long breath.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally muttered, still staring at the pan. “I don’t – yeah, alright. I f – I – I want to impress Tom. I want his brother to – to at least not _hate_ me. I want to stop being such a fucking coward. _That’s_ what I was thinking.”

To Steph’s credit, her gaze did not soften or lessen; Will could feel it, sharp on his face, and was distantly grateful. He did not think he could have tolerated softness or pity at that moment.

“I just,” he said, “I just want things to – I don’t know.”

He heard Steph sigh. “Least you’re honest about it,” she muttered. “Now – if you’re determined to be this moronic, least _I_ can do is ensure you don’t end up on the news or in the Thames.”

Will squinted at her suspiciously. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“Well,” said Steph, “short of coming _with_ you, not much I can do directly. And I’d rather not, if it’s all the same,” she added quickly, seeing the grimace Will tried to mask. “Fielding questions from Big Brother while you ogle your fella doesn’t do it for me. So I’ll call you – the flat phone, rather, you _do_ have the number? I’ll call an hour in or so and ask for you, say it’s an emergency so you have to leave.”

Will blinked. “You’ve thought this through,” he said.

“More than you have,” Steph retorted. “This is still a monumentally stupid idea, mind you.” She turned as if to leave, then paused to gesture at the pan.

“Glad to see you’re finally using that bloody thing,” she said. “It cost enough. They’d better turn out good.”

Will couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll make two batches,” he said, and Steph rolled her eyes. As she turned to leave, Will added, “Lauri says hello, by the way. Told me to tell you.”

Steph paused again. “Hello right back,” she said, in a softer voice. Her back was to Will, so he couldn’t see her face, but she sounded as if she were smiling.

\--

Will had just closed the oven door on the first batch when the telephone rang. Hastily setting the timer, he hurried to the telephone and picked it up. Steph was sitting on the couch with her dog-eared copy of Sappho’s _Poems_ , looking at him with one eyebrow raised. Will raised an eyebrow back at her and spoke into the receiver.

“Hello?”

 _“Will?_ ” said Tom’s voice. “ _Uh, that’s to say – hello. Sorry I – I couldn’t make it by today.”_

“Don’t worry about it,” Will said. “It – it’s good to, uh, hear from you. Um. How are you?”

“ _Uh, I’m – I’m doing good. Well. Busy day at work. Mr. Jondalar kept asking me what I think of CDs, whether I think they’re gonna replace records and such, but I don’t know_ anything _about that and I tried to tell him so. It’s like, I’m interested in the, the_ music _more than the thing I use to_ listen to _the music, yeah? You get me?”_

Will nodded, then remembered he was on the telephone and said, “Yeah, I – I get that.”

He glanced at Steph. She rolled her eyes and made a face like she was gagging before taking her book with her into the bedroom and closing the door.

 _“I dunno_ ,” Tom continued, _“I tried to tell him that, but I guess he thinks cause I’m_ young _I must know about how this shit works. He’s been talking about me going to some other music stores to, like, scout out the bloody competition or something. I don’t know. He’s treating it like he’s the fucking MI-6 and I’m like, ‘Mr. Jondalar, no offense, but it’s a fucking record store.’ Except, you know, I can’t actually_ say _that, I just got this job._ ”

“I don’t know," Will said, "it sounds pretty serious." Trying to hold back a laugh, he continued, in a whisper, “Are – are you sure it’s wise to even be talking on the phone about this? What if – they, they could be, uh, listening in, you know.”

There was a pause, just long enough for Will to wonder if Tom perhaps had misunderstood – or, worse, thought it wasn’t funny.

“ _You’re right,_ ” Tom said after a moment, also in a whisper. _“My God, you’re_ right _. They – they’ve got the phones tapped. The other music stores are listening in – I’ll bet they have my place bugged."_

There was a moment of anticipatory silence as both struggled not to laugh. Will could hear Tom breathing on the other end, and it was almost like he was there at the flat again. Then Tom let out an overly dramatic gasp.

 _"They_ got _me,"_ he muttered. " _I’ve been compromised, I can hear the bastards coming! Tell my family I love them!_ ”

After that it sounded like Tom was doing a bad imitation of gunfire and explosions, with a few exaggerated screams thrown in for good measure. Will couldn’t be sure; he was laughing too hard. He could hear Tom’s impressions dissolving into laughter on the other end as well.

When the two of them had finally calmed down, Tom cleared his throat.

_“Oh! I – this is not at all, uh, related, but Joe said, uh, he’s making his special pasta tomorrow night and you’re welcome to, uh, to come to dinner. That’s – he, he also said that. If – if you’d like.”_

Will blinked, still in a bit of a fog from the laughter. “Special . . . pasta?” he echoed. A tiny, hysterical part of him wondered if Joe would slip something into his portion – an easy way to get rid of a problem. He shook his head hard to get rid of the thought.

Even over the phone he could hear Tom nodding. _“’S_ really _good, trust me. So, uh – I mean, would that work? Tomorrow? I, I know it’s, uh, short notice.”_

The hope in Tom’s voice sounded genuine, and Will _desperately_ wanted to believe that it was, that Tom hadn’t known about or somehow orchestrated Joe’s visit. But if it was – should he tell Tom what happened? Did Tom need to know what his brother had done?

Will closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “That – that should work,” he found himself saying. “I need to check with Steph, but – should be fine.”

 _“Really?”_ The excitement in Tom’s voice was painfully endearing.

“Really,” Will repeated. “I – yes. I’ll come.”

He heard a burst of muffled and staticky cheering from the other end, and told himself he had made the right decision.

“ _Will,_ thank you _,”_ said Tom. “ _Really. I – this’ll be good. What, uh, what – what time would work for you? Tomorrow?_ ”

“Maybe, uh, seven?” Will replied. “I – I’ve got to go home from work first.”

 _“Yeah, of course,_ ” Tom said. “ _So – sorry, but – really? You can_ actually _make it?”_

There was no hiding the hope in his voice.

“Yeah,” said Will, “I – hang on, what’s your address? You might’ve said it before, but, um, I forgot, sorry.”

 _“No worries!_ ” Tom responded elatedly. He listed off the address and Will copied it down.

 _“This’ll be good_ ,” Tom repeated, sounding giddy. _“This’ll – you and Joe are really gonna get on, I think. I – oh shit, he’s home. I’ve gotta let him know. See you tomorrow!_ ”

The dial tone cut off anything Will might have said in reply. He hung up the telephone and sighed.

“Did you do it?” At some point, Steph had exited the bedroom and was standing in front of him with her hands on her hips.

“Yeah,” Will said. “I – I did it.” A strange combination of accomplishment and dread curled up in his gut. Steph nodded once, briskly, and patted him on the shoulder.

“Worse comes to worst,” she said, “it’ll be a lovely funeral.” Then she sat back down on the couch and opened her book of poems again.

Will shook his head and returned to the kitchen. The first batch of madeleines was nearly done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: some mention of panic attacks, the possibility of Will being endangered by going to Joe and Tom's flat is brought up, mention of the possible need for someone to arrange a friend's funeral.  
> Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story so far! Have a good day!


	7. Dinner (Party)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, it's been so long! I'm sorry for the delay - this chapter took a very long time to get done, and I might still edit it. I hope it's good! This is another rough one, just as a warning. It hurt me to write it; let's see if it hurts to read it too. Trigger warnings can be found in the end notes for this chapter. Let me know what you think!

It was ten minutes to seven, and Tom had long since given up pretending to reread _Maurice_. Instead, he was looking out the window, his leg jogging up and down absently. Occasionally he forced himself to look at something else – the ceiling, the powered-off telly, his mum’s watercolors hung on the wall – but his gaze was always drawn back to the window.

“Tom!” his brother called from the kitchen. “Set the table, would you? Dinner’s almost done.”

Tom shot up like a rocket and hurried to the table, putting out napkins and cutlery with hands that were only a little shaky. For a moment he was frozen in indecision over where to put the third place, Will’s place – next to him? Or would that be too forward? Between him and Joe? But he didn’t want it to feel like they were cornering him, either –

The doorbell rang, and all rational thought left Tom’s head. He was dimly aware of the clatter of silverware as he rushed to the door, hoping to get there before Joe – who was suddenly standing right in front of him.

“Hang on,” Joe muttered, brushing at Tom’s shoulders. “’S all crumpled. And your hair’s a _mess_.”

Three knocks sounded on the door.

“It’s _fine_ ,” Tom hissed, batting his brother’s hands away. “It’s fine, it’s _stylish_ , fuck off and let me answer the fucking door.”

Joe rolled his eyes and backed off with his hands raised as if in surrender, then turned back to the kitchen. Tom ran to the door, forced himself to take a deep breath, and opened it as casually as he could, like he had just happened to hear the knocks and decided to come see who it was.

His breath caught in his throat.

Will was standing in front of the door, holding a biscuit tin in both hands. He was wearing a neatly pressed blue shirt and denim jacket – Tom was abruptly aware of the wrinkles in his own shirt – and his hair looked like spun gold in the sunlight.

There was a long silence as the two stared at each other, until Will finally cleared his throat.

“Hello,” he said. “Uh – I, I brought some, some biscuits. Madeleines.”

Tom blinked, and recalled where he was and what he was doing.

“Hi!” he responded, hoping he didn’t sound _too_ excited. “I – madeleines? That’s great, that’s wonderful. _Love_ madeleines.”

Tom had never heard of a madeleine before, but if they were biscuits, that was good enough for him.

“Um. W – Won’t you come in?” he added quickly, backing up to give Will enough room before waiting with bated breath as the latter stepped inside and looked around warily. He noticed that Will’s knuckles were white where he was clutching the biscuit tin.

“Would – I mean, uh, if – if you want to hang up your jacket, uh, you can, just – here.” Tom gestured vaguely toward the coat rack and saw Will’s gaze flick towards it.

“I – if it’s alright,” Will said quietly, almost shrinking slightly “I, uh – I’d rather keep it on. At least for now?”

Tom nodded. “That’s – course it’s alright,” he said quickly. He could feel himself starting to babble. “Uh – it’s, it’s nice. The jacket. On you. Or – it, it’d probably look nice, um, off y– I mean, it, it’s a nice jacket.”

He resisted the urge to smack himself as Will looked at him with what seemed like a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“Thanks,” Will said. “I – I think. You, uh, you look nice too.”

Tom felt himself turn bright red. “Oh, _this_?” he said, as casually as he could. “Just a – just, just something I had, uh, lying around, you know.”

Will nodded, and there was definitely amusement in his face. “I’m sure,” he said with a small smile.

Tom grinned back. “The, uh, the table’s just over here,” he said. “Or – d’you want to put the, uh, the biscuits in the kitchen? Joe’s in there right now, but he won’t bite – I can introduce you.”

A shadow passed over Will’s face at the mention of Joe. “Sounds good,” he said neutrally.

Tom nodded, brushing off the strange tone, and led him to the kitchen.

Next to the sink, Joe was stirring together pasta and red sauce in a large bowl. He glanced up as the two walked in and, oddly, seemed to tense when he saw them.

“Joe,” Tom said, “this – this is Will.” He saw, with some amusement, that Will was the taller of the two by a few inches.

Will looked at Joe and slowly put up one hand in a small wave. His other hand was still clutching the biscuit tin in a death grip.

Joe returned the gesture bemusedly. “Nice to, uh, meet you,” he said hesitantly. “I’m – uh, Joseph Blake. Joe. But – I mean, Tom just said that. So.”

He held out his hand. Will took it, shaking it firmly.

“Nice to meet you too,” he said. His smile had grown tight. “I’m Will. Schofield.”

Tom let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Maybe this could actually work.

Joe nodded. “Uh – dinner’s about ready,” he said, “just need to get the salad. Maybe – you, uh, you can go sit down, if you’d like. Or – I don’t know. Enough time for a quick tour?”

“ _Really_ quick,” Tom said, glancing between Will and Joe. “Is – that alright, Will?”

Will blinked. “Sure,” he said quietly. “Um. I – I brought biscuits for later.”

He raised the tin slightly, and Joe’s face lit up.

“That’s excellent!” he said. “I – I hadn’t had anything, uh, lined up for after dinner, so – so this is perfect.”

“I, uh, just hope they turned out alright,” Will demurred, but his smile looked easier as he handed the tin to Joe, who carefully placed it on the counter. Tom saw his hands were in tight fists at his sides.

“Go on, then,” Joe said, reaching inside the tiny fridge to pull out bags of greens. “Six whole rooms, you’d better get a move on with that tour.”

“Right,” said Tom. He almost reached for Will’s hand, but blinked and quickly withdrew it. If the others noticed, they gave no sign. Will followed him out of the kitchen as they doubled back to the front door.

“Here’s the front room,” Tom said, “clearly. That was, uh, the kitchen, just now.”

They walked to the other end of the front room and Tom heard Will’s footsteps stop. He turned to see Will staring at the tiny paintings on the wall with a look of wonder on his face.

“These are lovely,” Will said. “Cherry blossoms?”

“Sure are,” Tom answered, walking back towards him. “We – well, my mum has a few trees at, uh, her house. She painted those, ’s a hobby of hers. Gives ‘em as gifts.”

Will nodded absently, his eyes still fixed on the paintings. “My – my great-grandad loved them,” he said quietly. “Cherry blossoms, I mean.”

Tom looked up at the painting alongside him.

“Can see why,” he said, half to himself. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Will’s voice said from next to him. “Beautiful.”

Tom looked at the painting for a moment longer, then glanced over at Will.

Strangely, he saw Will quickly look away from him, turning slightly pink. Perhaps his hair was messier than he had thought. He resisted the urge to try patting it down and cleared his throat. 

“There’s the dining room, too,” he said with a gesture. “Bedrooms and loo up ahead. That’s – that’s it, really.”

Will nodded. “This is, uh, nice,” he said hesitantly, looking at the dining table. “The – the flat, I mean. Um – spacious. Has it been nice, being here?”

“’S alright,” Tom replied. “I mean, it’s no palace, but, you know.”

Will nodded. “You get your own bed, though, at least?” he asked, looking sidelong at Tom. He looked a little like he was trying not to laugh – his smile was more crooked than usual and his eyebrows were raised, some combination of invitation and expectation in his eyes.

Tom blinked, a little taken aback that he could tell between Will’s smiles, and said, “I – uh, yeah?”

From the look Will gave him – a combination of amusement, mild exasperation, and what Tom could only hope was fondness – he had missed something. But Will’s smile only grew slightly and evened out a bit, so it was less teasing and more – content, maybe? Was that the right word? Tom couldn’t quite dare to think of other words for it.

He tried to remember what the joke might have been, but before he could, Joe was poking his head around the corner and saying, “Dinner’s ready. Will, uh, we have – um. We have water to drink.” He scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “I, uh, forgot to get anything else.”

“Water would be lovely,” Will said politely. There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Joe smiled self-deprecatingly and turned toward the table, rearranging the cutlery.

Tom and Will went to join him, except Will hung back, glancing at Tom.

“I – where, uh, where should I sit?” he asked. There were three places forming a semicircle around one end of the table.

Tom shrugged. “Where you like,” he said, as flippantly as he could. “D-doesn’t matter.”

Will cocked his head to the side slightly, looking at Tom, then sat at one end of the semicircle with his hands folded in his lap. Tom took the middle seat – _obviously_ – and tried to be casual about it. He thought he had succeeded.

And, for the first thirty minutes, things went as well as could be expected.

Joe brought out the pasta and salad, as well as glasses of water for everyone. Initially they were all more focused on eating than speaking; Tom hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d had his first bite. He noticed that Will ate more slowly than either of the brothers, taking small bites and sitting ramrod-straight in his chair.

“Um,” Will said quietly after finishing a bite. “This is, uh, really good, Joe. Thanks for making it.”

Joe looked taken aback, but smiled. “Glad you like it,” he said. “It’s our mother’s recipe.”

Will gave him a small smile in return, and Tom had the fleeting sense that something was loosening between them. Presumably it was the tension from earlier.

When all three of them had finished eating, Joe pushed his plate away and seemed to steel himself.

“I dunno if Tom, uh, told you, Will,” he began, “but I – there’s some, some questions I’d like to ask you, if that’s alright.”

“You don’t have to answer them,” Tom cut in, looking sidelong at Joe. “If – if you don’t want to.”

Will nodded, looking resigned. It was almost as if he were _expecting_ to be questioned – which, to be fair, was a reasonable assumption when meeting someone.

“That’s alright,” Will said, “go ahead.”

Joe pulled out a stack of notecards – Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes – and Will’s mouth twisted, but his face was otherwise calm. He made no comment on the strangeness of bringing _notecards_ to dinner – not even an eye-roll or raised eyebrows. Again, it was as if he had expected the notecards.

That did it.

“Okay,” Tom said, looking between Will and Joe, “okay, uh, sorry, but do – have, have you two met, or something? You’re acting rather, uh, odd.”

At that, a brief and subtle change came over Will’s face. It only lasted a second – less than a second – but during that time it looked almost like Will was _glaring_ at Joe. Tom had never seen that kind of look on Will’s face before. Then the glare was gone, and Will’s face was tired.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, putting his face in his hands. “Long day at work.” His voice was muffled.

“Joe,” he continued, “you – you can ask me any _question_ you’d like.”

There was a new tension thrumming in the air between Will and Joe. Tom must have missed something that happened – but what?

“Right,” Joe said. “Um – what, what’s your name? Please.”

“Will Schofield.”

“Right. And, uh – how old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

Joe nodded. “Very good.”

Tom rolled his eyes again and his gaze caught on the stack of notecards. The top card read,

in Joe’s spiky handwriting: _WORK PIPING KETTLE – CG MARKET CAFÉ_. He stared at it for a moment before his attention was drawn back to Joe and Will.

“So,” said Joe, “where do you work?”

“Café in Covent Garden,” Will said. “ _The Piping Kettle_.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Almost a year, now,” Will said. “Started at, at the end of last summer.”

Joe nodded. “And how long are you planning to work there?”

Tom didn’t hear what Will said in reply. The overall atmosphere at the table had cooled to one of calm politeness, but there was a nagging feeling at the back of Tom’s mind that he had missed something. The conversation was almost _too_ careful, bizarre as the idea was.

Abruptly, it hit him. Or, rather, the possibility hit him, because it had to be only a possibility, and not even that – because Joe wouldn’t have done that, what the possibility implied. He wouldn’t have gone back on his word. He _wouldn’t_ have.

He was vaguely aware that his brother and Will were still talking, each quiet and courteous to the other, leaving space for him to chime in on occasion. But he couldn’t focus on what they were saying – his mind was racing.

How did his brother know the name of the café where Will worked, _before Will told him_? How would he have known, when Tom didn’t tell him either, unless – unless –

Unless he had been there before, and seen Will there. And if what Will said was true, if he hadn’t been working there all that long, then Joe would have had to have gone by fairly recently. And the café was a long way from Joe’s work. So why would Joe have gone to that specific café, fairly recently, if not to –

Tom couldn’t make himself finish the thought. It was, objectively speaking, a simple possibility, yet it stood in opposition to what Tom (thought he) knew about Joe. He _knew_ his brother wouldn’t have done that, but despite this knowledge he could feel his face starting to burn. What if he _had_? What if he had done what Tom had feared? But then Will – he would have said something, right?

At this thought, a dreadful gaping hole in Tom’s knowledge of Will was revealed: he didn’t know what Will would have done. He _didn’t know_. Maybe Will would have mentioned it, or maybe not, for any number of reasons, but Tom could not be sure.

The thought made him go cold.

Slowly, awareness of the voices around him crept back into his consciousness.

“ – with, uh, LGSM,” Will was saying. “So, I – I’d like to go back, if I can. Soon. I’ve, uh, been saving up for it, try to get a degree in, uh, in Culinary Arts or something like that.”

Joe nodded, looking vaguely pleased. “Good for you,” he said, sounding genuine. “That’s really very admirable. Now, this – this, uh, LGSM you mentioned. Was that the, uh, the matter with the miners’ strike a few years back?”

Suddenly Tom was no longer cold, but boiling hot. His face was on fire.

“Joe,” he said, far too loudly. He could not keep his voice from trembling.

His brother glanced at him, looking slightly confused. Tom could feel Will’s eyes on him as well, but he ignored the sensation.

“Joe, how’d you know the name of the café before he told you?”

There was an abrupt silence around the table.

Tom fixed his brother with a glare and saw that Joe’s eyes had gone wide. His brother’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish trying to breathe.

This sight, this confirmation of what Tom had hoped was impossible, was _infuriating._

“Is it that fucking difficult of a question?”

Joe swallowed hard. Tom recognized the look on his face: it was his _I need to think of an explanation_ look. Joe had always been shit at making things up.

“Tom,” he said carefully, _condescendingly_ , “I – I know what you’re thinking, and –”

Something in Tom snapped.

“No you _don’t_!” The last word came out as a yell. He heard the clatter of cutlery from his other side. “ _Don’t_ – don’t try to make excuses for yourself. Just _tell_ me how you knew. Tell me the _truth._ ”

He was barely aware of the words that were spewing out of him; all he could feel was humiliation, and anger, and a deep sense of betrayal – at Joe’s actions, at Will’s silence, and, bizarrely, at himself, at the gap in his knowledge of Will. At the same time he felt furious at his own surprise and dismay; of course he wouldn’t know for sure what Will would do, he had known him for less than two goddamn weeks. It shouldn’t hurt this much that Will hadn’t told him what happened. He was a fucking idiot who didn’t know when to shut the hell up, and this was where it got him.

“Tom,” said Joe, his eyes still wide, “I – I fucked up. I shouldn’t have – I fucked up, and I’m s—”

“That still doesn’t tell me _what you did_.” He knew, then, what had happened, but he wanted to hear it from Joe. (He wanted some explanation for all of it that didn’t involve Joe betraying his trust and breaking his promise.)

“I – I went to the café,” Joe said. “And, and I – I asked some questions that were inappropriate. And I – Will, I’m sorry. That was none of my business.”

For a moment Joe’s gaze flicked over to land on Will, and Tom’s gaze followed.

Will was sitting with his back hunched and his head bent, staring fixedly at the plate. He was gripping the cutlery with white-knuckled and shaking hands. For a moment Tom hoped, spitefully, that he was as uncomfortable as he looked. Why hadn’t he told him about meeting Joe – did he think he couldn’t _handle_ it?

“You asked him _questions_ ,” Tom repeated flatly, tearing his gaze away from Will.

“What _kinds_ of questions?”

Joe’s mouth opened and closed again.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tom said. “This isn’t one of your goddamn _court cases_ , Joe. You – I cannot _believe_ you did that, you went behind my fucking back –”

“I just wanted –”

“Shut _up_!” Tom shouted. “You wanted to keep me safe, right? _Right_? That’s what you keep fucking saying. Has it occurred to you that I am a goddamn _adult_? Or – or that I can fucking take care of myself? I am _not_ stupid, and I’m _not_ a little kid anymore.”

“I know,” Joe said, looking pale. “Tom, I – I _know_ that –”

“ _Do_ you?” he retorted. “I’m not so sure, to be honest. Were you two just – what – hoping I wouldn’t fucking notice?”

Joe could no longer meet his eyes.

“Will,” Tom said, turning to glance at him, “did you –”

He froze as Will’s head snapped up. Whatever question he had been about to ask died in his throat.

Will was as pale as a sheet and his face was blank. His eyes were wide and empty, fixed on some distant point, and he had curled into himself, breathing shallowly, like he was trying to make himself smaller. He looked like he was somewhere far away.

Tom remembered, abruptly, how reluctant Will had been to meet Joe in the first place, and his words about _past experience_. He knew, he _knew_ Joe wouldn’t have done anything bad – except he’d thought he’d known that Joe wouldn’t have broken his promise, either. So where did that leave things?

Tom’s spiteful hope from before came up in his throat like bile, and he swallowed hard.

“Will?” he said, more quietly. “Are – are you alright?”

It was, he knew, an immensely stupid question to ask, but it was all he could think of.

Will shook his head, still hyperventilating. His eyes were red.

“Gimme a, a second,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just – sorry. Sorry. Be – be over soon.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and took in a long, slow breath. His hands were still wrapped around the cutlery in a death grip. He let out the breath slowly and slumped his head. The hand that was holding the fork uncurled very slightly, just enough to let the utensil fall; then he pulled at the handle of the knife in his other hand, until he was gripping the blade itself in a white-knuckled grip, its edge digging into his palm. Tom winced to see it.

After what felt like an eternity of horrible, swollen silence, Will finally raised his head. He looked exhausted, and his hands shook. When he set down the knife, Tom saw an angry red line cutting across his palm. He’d need a plaster for that. A plaster across the middle of his palm –

_Minor wound._

Tom wanted to throw up.

Will let out a long, shuddering sigh and flexed his hands.

“S-Sorry about that,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I think I – I ought to go now. Sorry.”

He stood up slowly and mechanically, still curled into himself. Something had gone out of his eyes.

Tom was frozen in his seat. He barely registered Joe starting to get up, saying something in an urgent tone of voice – more apologies, no doubt. But Tom could neither move nor speak. His eyes were fixed on Will as the latter turned away from the table, shaking his head slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he kept saying. “I’m sorry, Tom. I just –”

He made a choked-off noise.

“I need to go,” he said.

Will disappeared around the corner. A moment later, Tom heard the door open and shut.

He stayed sitting at the table for a very long time.

\--

An immeasurable amount of time later, the phone rang. Numbly, Tom went to answer it.

“Blake residence,” he said dully.

“ _Blake?_ ” came an all-too-familiar voice. _“That you? Can I speak to Bromley, please?_ ”

Tom swallowed hard. “He, uh, he left,” he said. “Um. I, I don’t – maybe fifteen or twenty minutes ago?”

 _“He_ left?” Steph’s voice sharpened. _“What happened?”_

“I –”

There were, absurdly, tears pricking at Tom’s eyes. Which was ridiculous, because _he_ wasn’t the one who had just had – what even had that been, what happened to Will? Some kind of attack? What the fuck did _Tom_ have to cry about?

 _“Blake.”_ Steph’s voice was hard. “ _Tell me what happened. Please.”_

Tom let out a long breath and scrubbed at his eyes. “I – my brother, I guess, went to – to talk to him. To Will. And I didn’t know until tonight, and I – I got mad, and Will got – he got s-scared or something, I – I don’t know. And then he left.”

He heard Steph give a muttered curse on the other end.

 _“Listen,”_ she said, her voice colder than he had ever heard it. _“If Will left there twenty minutes ago, it should take him another hour at most to get here. If he_ doesn’t _get here by then, I’ll call the fucking cops. And if you’ve done_ anything _to him –_ ”

She cut herself off with a choked sound. Tom heard her take a deep, shaky breath.

“ _You get the idea_ ,” she said.

“Yeah,” Tom said. “I – I get it.”

 _“Good,”_ said Steph.

There was a click, and Tom heard the dial tone. He hung his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: shouting, supreme awkwardness, threats, description of a panic attack from an outside perspective, mild self-harm (using pain as an anchor, which I do NOT condone in any way). Stay safe everyone, and have a good day!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is the whopping SECOND written work I've ever published, and I appreciate comments and constructive criticism so I can improve. Have a good day!  
> 


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